My daughter, the younger of my two children, turned thirteen this week. Both my children are now teenagers (my son will be fifteen next month), and although I don't wonder where the time went I do feel just a little bit geriatric over the whole thing. (Yes, I know--I'm not even forty yet. Look, this is the oldest I'VE ever been, so just let me work through it, willya?) I recently completed a little project for myself: I took lots of old pictures I had laying about, used some of them to "repair" some photo albums*, and used the rest to fill two gigantic collage frames. Most of the pictures are of the kids at various ages. I know EXACTLY where the time went, and I can look at it every time I go up or down my stairs. The pictures are great, and you can really see the kids grow up in them.
No, my issues about their ages comes from a completely different place: my own childhood. My father passed away when I was thirteen; although I won't have "outlived" him for another couple of years, my own kids will now have a father whose blueprint has expired. I didn't have a dad after thirteen years old (Mom, you are great, no question), so I'm not altogether sure how to be one for someone older than thirteen (I went through this with my boy, too). Some people tell me I'm doing fine, but I have moments of concern. I suppose it's just one of those "one day at a time" things that I have to grow comfortable with.
It is cool, though, to look at those frames. It makes me feel a lot better to watch them grow up all over again in just a few minutes' time.
* I have several photo albums of the kids from my first marriage--their mother made them. My second wife took it upon herself to "edit"; she hid or removed religious pages from the pre-Judaic-conversion days, and made a few other changes. I am happy to report with some money, some time, a local Creative Memories consultant, and some TLC, those books are back to their original condition. Yay, me.
Observations, rants, and plausible
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
The Village
I AM WRITING!
My Screenplay -- Draft Three
I'm currently reading:
On my Kindle 2
I'm listening to:
iTunes Radio
I'm driving:
The Honda FCX Clarity
